


Better (additional scenes to 'This Time, We'll Do Better')

by LadyTP



Series: Better [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward, F/M, Missing Scene, Sansa back in Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:20:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23254597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTP/pseuds/LadyTP
Summary: Missing scenes from my time-travel fix-it ficThis Time, We’ll Do Better.Sansa Stark wakes up in her room in Winterfell and simply cannot fathom how she ended up there, the appearance of her sister Arya and The Hound not helping.Sandor Clegane knows something is not right with the little bird, so he follows her when he sees her slipping out of the Red Keep.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Series: Better [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628743
Comments: 91
Kudos: 144





	1. Sansa - The Strangest Awakening

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MadJJ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadJJ/gifts).



> Well, here comes a bit more from the world of my fic “This Time, We’ll Do Better” - as promised! I hope to write a few chapters from different POVs, from different scenes along their long journey.
> 
>  **EDIT 18 April 2020:** As I ended up posting the second chapter as part of this fic instead as a new one, I changed the initial fic title to _"Better (additional scenes to 'This Time, We'll Do Better')"_ , assigning the original fic name to Chapter 1. Apologies for the confusion!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The overwhelmingly most requested additional bit by the readers concerned past!Sansa finding herself back in her new situation after all that had happened, so this scene is about that very moment when she wakes up in Winterfell among her family and one interesting new addition to it…
> 
> Technically speaking this could be considered as a continuation to the fic, which however I was not (and am not) planning to do, but since this scene kind of had already happened in where we left our story, in modern times, I guess it’s okay…
> 
> Million thanks for wonderful [Gefionne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gefionne) for betaing this chapter!

_**Sansa** _

Sansa woke up to something warm and wet on her face.

The feeling was not exactly unpleasant – just unexpected. Odd.

She moved her head and the hard surface against her cheek struck her as another peculiarity. Her bed had a _soft_ mattress, stuffed with down and feathers. She should know, having spent countless hours lying on it, crying for the ruins of her broken dreams. She might have been a prisoner of the court, but one that was kept in a gilded cage with all the comforts.

She felt it again. Wet…lick?

Sansa opened one eye and found herself staring at something white and brown and hairy with a pair of big brown eyes.

_A dog?_

She took another look, this time with both eyes, and yes, there was no mistaking it. The dog – actually just a puppy – had noticed she was awake and came at her with increased enthusiasm.

“Shush, settle down, umpfff –” Sansa tried to shield her face with an upraised arm but hit her hand against something hard above her. “Ow!”

She was fully awake now, and having established that she was, as it happened, lying on her stomach, she tried to lift and turn around, only to hit her head against the same hard object her arm had already made acquaintance with.

Taking stock of the situation, it took Sansa a moment to realise that she was lying under a _bed_ , on a hard wooden floor. The puppy who had woken her up was now snuggled next to her face, alternating between licking it and panting excitedly, the hot exhale brushing against her cheek.

_What, why, how…?_

Sansa pressed flat against the floor and crawled backwards to free herself from her predicament, and having surfaced from it, got up onto her knees and swept her gaze across the room.

And froze.

_This can’t be!_

It was _her_ room – her room in Winterfell, not the one assigned to her in the Red Keep. It looked somewhat different from when she had last seen it, but she recognised it immediately. It was less tidy than what she had left it, though; clothes were strewn across the floor and things scattered on the tables and the window sill.

_How is this possible?_

Sansa closed her eyes and concentrated. The last thing she remembered was tossing and turning in her bed – the one in the Red Keep – after yet another day of misery in her captivity while waiting for the blessed temporary escape sleep provided. She had been worried about the fate of her father and despaired of the path laid out in front of her: forced to marry Joffrey and stay in the court as a pawn in political stakes.

And yet here she was, unmistakably in her own home in the North. How could she have gotten here? Had Robb descended into King’s Landing and saved her, as she had always dreamt?

Or had Joffrey beaten Robb’s forces, had Baratheon and Lannister troops swept across the country and seized Winterfell, taking her along as a token symbol of Stark blood?

With shaking legs Sansa stood up and looked around again. The clothes on the floor were feminine, more or less, but she didn’t recognise any of them as hers. Hanging on the wall was a sword, a slender small thing. A memory tickled her mind; she had once seen Arya with something like it in the Hand’s Tower, but could it be the same? She stepped towards it to examine it closer when the door slammed open.

“Sansa – what are you doing in my room?” It _was_ Arya. She had been lost and suspected dead, but was now staring at her if not exactly angry, at least somewhat irritated.

Sansa stared at her sister. She looked different; more grown-up, her hair and clothes not the same as what Sansa remembered. But she was _here_ and she was _alive_ and Sansa’s heart soared.

“Arya?” she whispered.

“I see, your rascal again,” Arya said, smiling at the puppy who greeted her with a wagging tail. “Diva, I have told you and told you that this is _my_ room – you are not allowed in unless invited! Robb is still angry about the mess in his room, feathers all over the place.”

Sansa’s jaw dropped as Arya knelt and scratched the puppy’s head, cooing nonsense in its ear. _Robb?_

“Arya, what has happened?” she croaked, overcome by the picture painted by her sister’s words. Could it be true? Had she been saved from the clutches of Lannisters? And if she had been… “Where is Father? Is he safe?”

Arya glanced up and frowned. “What are you talking about? Father is at the Wall with Jon – or wait, have you heard some news, has something happened?”

The puppy forgotten, Arya jumped to her feet and rushed to Sansa. “Tell me, what have you heard or seen?!”

Sansa was taken aback. Father and Jon at the Wall?

“Nothing,” she stammered. “I know nothing! Why am I here? How did I get here? Did Robb save me and Father?”

Arya took a step back and stared at her as if she had suddenly sprouted horns, but at least she appeared to calm down a bit.

“Sansa, what are you talking about? What do you mean ‘why am I here’? Don’t you remember?”

Sansa collapsed to sit on the bed, her legs finally giving way under her.

“I don’t! I fell asleep in the Red Keep and woke up here”—she pointed at the floor—“under this bed, to be precise! How I got here I have no recollection. How is it possible?!”

Arya tensed and rocked back on the balls of her feet, cocking her head and biting her lip, looking unsure.

“You remember _nothing?_ About how you and Father escaped the Red Keep and travelled across the country, and how we met at the inn at the crossroads – and you went to the Quiet Isle and were captured by Tywin Lannister and escaped again, and we came back to Winterfell, all sound and safe, and we made all those plans based on your greendreams…” She stopped, suddenly. “Do you remember your greendreams?”

Sansa pressed her face on her hands, exasperated. “I remember nothing! _What_ greendreams?!”

She felt tears burning under her eyelids. Of happiness or despair, she couldn’t be sure. It seemed she was indeed back at home with her family, as she had prayed and hoped, but not knowing how she had gotten there frightened her. And what greendreams was Arya talking about?

Arya came closer and sat next to her, putting an arm around her shoulder. It felt comforting, especially given the circumstances under which they had last seen each other, both still hurting from the events on the Kingsroad and blaming each other. Sansa snuggled closer and Arya squeezed her arm around her tighter.

“There there. I’m sure there is an explanation for this. Maybe Maester Luwin can help. And also -” Arya sprang up again. “Wait, I’ll get someone who might be able to refresh your memory.”

Without waiting for Sansa’s answer she left the room in hurried steps, shouting behind her shoulder for Sansa to sit tight and wait for her return.

Sansa did as she was bid, still reeling from the unexpected turn of events. A few tears flowed down her cheek but she swept them away. Whatever had happened, it must have been good, for them to be back at home, Father being free and Mother and Robb somewhere nearby as well. She took a few deep breaths and started to feel a bit better.

As Arya had promised, she was back soon, but yet another shock greeted Sansa in the form of the person she brought with her.

_The Hound!_

There simply couldn’t be a mistake about his burned visage and enormous size, and instinctively Sansa recoiled, trying to make herself as small as possible. In truth, she wasn’t so much afraid of the Hound, he having shown her unexpected patience and rough kindness before, but rather what he represented. If _he_ was here, did it mean that Joffrey was here too? Maybe she wasn’t quite as safe as she had thought, after all.

“Sansa,” the Hound panted. He had been running from the look of it, his breathing hard and fast and a trickle of sweat running down his forehead. “What has happened? Arya tells me you don’t know where you are or some such nonsense.”

He was not dressed in his Kingsguard attire nor in the usual simple clothing he wore when not on duty, but instead carried – _what is the meaning of this?_ – Stark colours on his tunic and gambeson. He approached her without hesitation and knelt on the floor beside her, taking her hand in his. It almost disappeared in his huge grip.

Sansa winced and tried to pull her hand away. The Hound had never been so informal with her, knowing his place and her position – and why was he calling Arya by her name, not addressing her as “Lady Arya”? Were they all perhaps still Lannister prisoners and hence he didn’t bother with good manners?

The Hound noticed her reaction and dropped her hand as if it burned him. He frowned, his eyebrows drawn together and his whole body tensing.

“Sansa?” he started again, studying her face with an expression that almost scared Sansa with its intensity.

“I… what are _you_ doing here? Is King Joffrey here, too?” Sansa braced herself, slipping on her armour of courtesy and preparing to play her role once again. “My apologies, but I seem to have lost… a grasp of the recent events.”

The Hound stared at her for a long time and each moment that ticked by made Sansa more and more uneasy. He had never been overly familiar with her despite his rough manners and direct speech, but now he was leaning so close to her, staring at her so openly… It was as unnerving as it was uncomfortable.

Finally the Hound sighed, a deep sigh coming from the depth of his core. His face transformed, and it was only now that Sansa realised what else had been so different in him: instead of his usual scowl, his expression had been more expressive and oddly enough, openly worried. He withdrew from her and stood up.

“Lady Sansa, do I gather that you have lost your memory? Is the last thing you remember from the Red Keep when you were still at the court of King Joffrey?”

Finally somebody understood! Sansa nodded eagerly. “Yes, that’s exactly what has happened. I know we are in Winterfell now, but I have no recollection of how I got here – _we_ got here: you and Arya and … who else?”

She took a deep breath. She would hear the truth of it now. It might have been irrational, but she trusted the man in front of her delivering it to her, no matter what it was. Good or bad.

Arya had crossed her arms and waited at the back of the room, observing them both with open curiosity.

The Hound pulled up to his full height and stared at the wall above her head. His face was blank and closed, although still not as sullen as she remembered it.

“You are in Winterfell with your family. You and Lord Eddard escaped the Red Keep and made your way here, joined along the journey by Lady Catelyn, your brother Robb and sister Arya. King Joffrey is dead and King Tommen sits on the throne. You are free, and so is your family. Lannisters have no hold of you now.”

Sansa sighed with relief. She was free; it was as she had dared to hope!

Yet the Hound was not finished. “Lord Eddard has departed to visit the Wall with Jon Snow and your brother Bran, and Lady Catelyn has gone to Dragonstone to meet with Lord Stannis. They will be back, but it might be a while yet. Your brothers Robb and Rickon are in Winterfell, and Ser Jaime Lannister is currently a guest of House Stark with his newly-wedded wife Brienne of Tarth, who has sworn herself at the service of your lady mother.”

Sansa shuddered at the mention of Jaime Lannister, which the Hound seemed to notice as he glanced at her and continued in a lower voice. “Ser Jaime has turned his back on his family, as has Tyrion Lannister. They both are allies of House Stark now and Tyrion has gone on a mission across the Narrow Sea to seek a further alliance with the daughter of late King Aerys.”

Sansa heard every word but none of it made any sense. King Joffrey dead? Jaime and Tyron Lannister turned against their house? Who was Brienne of Tarth and how could she have sworn service to Lady Catelyn? Ladies didn’t swear into someone’s service, only men did. And how could her house be seeking an alliance with a Targaryen when her father had been one of the foremost figures in the rebellion against them? None of that made any sense at all!

Yet the overriding sensation she felt was relief and reassurance that her nightmare in the capital was finally over both for her and her father. Whys and wherefores paled in comparison to that liberating realisation.

“That is… that is wonderful news! Although I don’t understand how any of that is even possible – but I am so relieved to hear this!” Sansa smiled at the Hound, who was staring at the wall again.

“I could have told you that we were safe – wait, I think I _did_ tell you that,” Arya interjected from across the room.

“I am sorry, Arya, I was just – and still am – a bit overwhelmed.” Sansa smiled apologetically at her sister, who came closer and dropped down on the mattress next to her.

“If you have truly lost your memories, there is much more to tell you, I guess. I can tell you some, but as I wasn’t there from the beginning, Sandor can fill you in with the rest.”

_Sandor?_

Sansa looked back and forth between Arya and the Hound. Arya had hated the Hound with a passion for killing her friend, as far as Sansa remembered, and yet here she was, calling him by his first name and being friendly. How had _that_ happened?

“And how are you here, if you don’t mind me asking?” Sansa steadied her voice and addressed the Hound – Sandor?

He turned to look at her and once again Sansa was trapped by the intensity of his gaze. Before he could speak, though, Arya intervened.

“Sandor is a Stark man now. He travelled with you and Father all the way from King’s Landing, and he saved you and the others when Lannister men tried to recapture you, and then you and him –“

“Arya, your sister has suffered a shock and needs time to gather herself. The details can wait. I suggest we call for Maester Luwin, who can give her something to settle her down.” The Hound’s tone was tense and he took a step towards Arya. “Do you understand?”

Arya looked up and some sort of understanding seemed to pass between the two, as she closed her mouth and nodded.

“Of course. I’ll go and fetch Maester Luwin.” Arya stood up. “Can you stay with her? I don’t think we should leave her alone for now.”

The Hound nodded and Arya disappeared out of the door, but not before throwing a last quizzical and worried look over her shoulder at Sansa.

Sansa watched the exchange, puzzled by it. Was the Hound - Sandor Clegane - truly serving the Starks? How had that happened? If so, Sansa resolved not to think of him by the name Joffrey had called him; not to call him a dog. Nonetheless, his serving the Starks didn’t explain the familiarity between him and Arya and his forwardness when he had first arrived.

After the door closed, Clegane walked to the window and stared out towards the inner yard. His shoulders slumped and with that small gesture his intimidating form transformed; he looked somehow smaller, less frightening. Not that Sansa would have been genuinely afraid of him for a while, but he _had_ been Joffrey’s dog and an instrument for his cruel whims. If that was truly over and he wore her house’s colours, surely he wouldn’t harm her?

The silence stretched on. Neither of them spoke; Sansa’s mind was still reeling from all she had heard and from trying to put pieces together, and Clegane seemed to have said all he meant to say.

Sansa looked around the room and realised that it must be Arya’s room now, not hers. Where was she staying then? Did she _have_ a room of her own? If so, she wanted to go there – but first, she wanted to see Robb and Rickon. An abrupt longing to see her family, who she hadn’t seen for such a long time, swept over her and she almost cried realising that she would have to wait a bit longer to see her mother and father and Bran. But at least her brothers were here.

Sansa got to her feet and made for the door.

Clegane turned. “Where are you going?”

“I want to see my brothers,” Sansa said, not being able to help involuntary hesitation as she halted her steps. She was free to go, surely?

“Rickon is out with his wolf, somewhere. Robb has ridden out to hunt. I doubt you would find either of them, at least not easily.”

Sansa considered. It was undoubtedly true. Rickon and Shaggydog had loved to roam around even before, and by now he must have grown and been even more inclined to do so… And if Robb had gone hunting, he could stay awhile. Besides, she could run into Jaime Lannister or his wife and she didn’t want to, not without knowing more about the recent events.

“Oh,” was all Sansa said, but she returned to the bed and sat down again. She’d surely see her brothers later, then.

The silence continued, Clegane still standing by the window. Suddenly he spoke.

“You really remember _nothing_ of the last year?”

_A year? That long?_

Sansa swallowed. “I do not. I was there and now I’m here and I have no recollection whatsoever of how I got here…” Her words trailed off.

Clegane looked at her, an odd expression on his face: fraught and searching, his lips pressed in a hard, thin line.

He was different from what he had been before, the difference becoming clearer and clearer to Sansa the more she studied him from under her brow. He seemed more alive and the anger always simmering under the surface wasn’t there anymore. Yet at that moment it seemed to have been replaced by a stronger emotion, one that Sansa couldn’t decipher. Grief? Fear?

_It can’t be. The Hound fears nothing._

“Do you have any recollections of _anything_ at all, even if hazy and distant? Of people, emotions, sights, sensations?”

Sansa didn’t understand why it seemed so important for him what she remembered or not. Besides, it was an odd kind of question. Nonetheless, Sansa took her time to consider it. She closed her eyes and cast her mind into whatever could be there, anything other than her last day in the Red Keep or now this new reality. When she concentrated, out of a sudden she _did_ feel something: a warm feeling, a tingle of excitement, a sense of… _pleasure?_

Her eyes flew open. It didn’t make any sense. It couldn’t have been from her time in the capital, as it had been anything but pleasurable after the first excitement had worn off after their arrival. But if not then, when?

“I… I’m not sure,” she murmured. “I need to know more of what happened. Was it terrible? Or was I happy?”

“Did you _feel_ happy?” Clegane took in a deep breath and fixed her with his look.

“I don’t know. Maybe a little. Something. I don’t _know!”_ Sansa raised her voice, exasperated. Why was he asking her those questions? What was it to him?

Perhaps realising that he had stepped too far, Clegane raised his hands, palms open in a placating manner. “My apologies, Lady Sansa. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“That is fine. I need the answers to those questions myself, soon. Just not yet.”

“You are quite right; one step at the time.” Clegane contemplated her again. “Hence I should probably introduce you to Diva. She’s not quite as impressive as your direwolf was, but she has kept you company for the last few weeks.” Clegane pointed at the puppy who had slumped on the floor, apparently bored by the inactivity in the room.

Sansa turned her attention to it, pleased to move onto a less stressful topic. She _was_ a wonderful little thing: white and brown and fluffy with pointy ears and the most beautiful big brown eyes. As if sensing her eyes on her, the puppy raised her head and started to wiggle her tail, then got onto her feet and came to Sansa, jumping against her knee.

“Diva, I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” Sansa murmured while scratching her behind the ear. It was a strange name, but that was hardly her fault but belonged to the one who had named her.

The puppy bounced up and down and so Sansa lifted her into her lap. She was plump and cuddly and when Sansa pressed her face against her soft fur, contentment warmed her from within. The shock was still there, but it was gradually fading now that she was assured that things were, as a matter of fact, better.

The mystery of what had happened to her remained and she knew she had a lot to catch up on – but the most important thing was that she was here and she was safe and so was her family.

Everything else – including the mystery of Sandor Clegane and in his strange behaviour– could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know! Sansa and Sandor didn’t exactly address their situation as yet, but hey, let’s give a girl a bit of breathing space and time to recover from one shock before exposing her to another! Which I may or may not write, I can’t make any promises, sorry...Life is a bit crazy now, as I’m sure it is for all of you as well…
> 
> Please take care, hang on there and remember: **“THIS, TOO, SHALL PASS.”** 💝💝💝


	2. Sandor - What Friends Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it finally comes: Sandor’s POV! I thought it might be cool to add some scenes from the POVs of those whose voices we haven’t heard before – like past!Sansa in the last chapter.
> 
> This scene is set at around the events of [Chapter 17: ‘Far From Here’ of “This Time, We’ll Do Better”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13567893/chapters/34603598), when Sansa escaped the Red Keep but was accosted by Sandor just as she reached the inn where her father was waiting.
> 
> Do note that this chapter hasn’t been betaed, so apologies for all mistakes! If you notice some and are willing to let me know, do feel free approaching me - I am not against constructive criticism especially in grammar and such, not being a native speaker.

_**Sandor** _

There was something very strange going on with the Stark girl.

Sandor Clegane took a turn in the corridor, narrowly avoiding bumping into a servant boy who jumped out of the way at the last minute. After throwing a wide-eyed look at the tall warrior, the boy scurried away with a down-bowed head and hunched shoulders.

Sandor hardly noticed the incident, so deeply immersed he was in his thoughts.

First of all, the accident. He found it hard to believe that a mishap with such severe consequences could have happened as the girl claimed. Falling on the floor? Hitting her head? He had been there immediately after it had happened – or _supposedly_ had happened – and Sansa Stark hadn’t appeared hurt or even shaken.

No, what she had been was _furious_ – which alone had thrown Sandor so off his guard that he hadn’t paid as much attention to details as he perhaps should have. To see usually so meek and courteous little lady ranting and cursing like that… The corner of Sandor’s mouth twisted at the memory. Something had been seriously wrong with her then, that was clear – but what?

Even after Grand Maester Pycelle’s examination and the declaration that a hit on the head had momentarily disoriented her and made her utter all that nonsense, Sandor found it hard to believe. Sansa Stark had seemed perfectly lucid and coherent and her gaze had met his straight on, utterly without fear, her head raised high. No traces of thoughts lost midstream, no stammered sentences or confused expressions.

And how she had berated Joffrey and Cersei that day! Another involuntary smirk lifted the corner of his mouth before Sandor grew serious. What had _that_ been about?

If it hadn’t been an accident, the alternative was even more unbelievable: that she had behaved like that _on purpose._

Sandor reached his destination and muttering a few words to the stable master walked to Stranger’s stall. The horse greeted him with a nicker, but as Sandor bent down to examine his back leg, the horse attempted to bite him in the shoulder. He cuffed Stranger’s muzzle half-heartedly, more affectionately than angrily. Sandor was worried about the horse, who had dragged a leg at the end of the ride the previous day, and hoped he wouldn’t turn out lame.

Yet even his concerns over his temperamental horse couldn’t sway the path of his thoughts for long, those returning to the mystery of the Stark girl.

Sandor had seen glimpses of a wolf in the little bird a few times, although only fleetingly. Once when Joffrey had said something blatantly insulting about the Northerners and she had winced but hidden her discomfort. It hadn’t been out of meekness, Sandor was sure, having caught the sideways look she had thrown in Joffrey’s direction; indignant and affronted.

And that day when she had bowed low in front of Joffrey’s throne and pleaded for her father’s life – yes, she had played the role of a distraught daughter, but Sandor hadn’t missed steely determination in her countenance before and after her performance. It hadn’t been obvious, but his eyes had honed in the ways of reading her and even the smallest hints of her true feelings didn’t escape his notice.

Sandor saddled Stranger and walked him out, aiming to take the horse for a stroll to check his gait when he saw a familiar form disappearing around the corner. He hastened his steps. Could it be the Stark girl? And if so, what was she doing in this part of the castle, far away from the royal rooms?

If it was her, had she lost her way? If he stopped her, would she plead to the accident once again?

Maybe it _was_ true, maybe it had been a trauma of a different sort, not the one that left its target confused and bewildered. Maybe she behaved rationally and truly believed in whatever alternative reality her mind had conjured up – it still being based on nothing but an addled mind.

Sandor had seen plenty of head injuries in his time; soldiers hit with blunt weapons, throwing up and disorientated, some never recovering. But then again, he didn’t know everything about those sort of things – and usually, didn’t even care. It was not his job to know things but to do what he was told. Follow orders, fulfil his duty, ask no questions and think no deeper than what was required for the task at hand.

It had been so ever since he had first joined Lord Tywin’s service. One day at the time, him knowing his place and not steering from it. He had had dreams once, but he could hardly remember what they had been, now. Life was shit and then you died, simple as that. You took your pains and pleasures in the same vein; they didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

 _Almost_ nothing.

The tall shape in front of him walked fast, but not unusually so. It could be a servant girl on an errand, judging from the basket she was carrying, or a maid rushing to meet with a friend or a lover. Her head was covered with a scarf so Sandor couldn’t see the colour of her hair, but something in her posture and the way she carried herself made him wonder...

They walked across the small inner yard, Sandor trailing her with Stranger in tow at some distance, then past storerooms and grain sheds all the way to the postern gate used by servants and merchants supplying goods into the keep. A few guards were stationed there, just as on all gates leading to the castle, but due to constant traffic and the generally lowly disposition of the visitors, they didn’t seem too bothered about scrutinising comings and goings.

Sandor halted to observe if the girl he had been following would be stopped, but no, the guards didn’t even glance at her as she stepped out of the gate.

* * *

Still not sure whether he was barking up the wrong tree, Sandor kept on trailing his target, waiting for the opportunity to get a better glimpse of her. He didn’t want to challenge her openly, just in case - 

Sandor frowned, suddenly unsure about the reasons for his hesitancy. If his hunch was correct and she _was_ Sansa Stark, she was clearly attempting to escape and should be apprehended immediately. If she wasn’t, he could leave this fool’s chase and return to the keep and drown his folly in wine to forget it.

The well-worn path from the servant’s gate ran to the city’s edge, and that’s where Sandor got lucky. The girl stopped at the intersection of two roads and looked around, obviously considering where to go next - and when she turned, Sandor saw her profile and a strand of auburn hair peeking under the scarf.

Buggering hells! It _was_ her, the little bird.

* * *

He should have stopped her then.

He should have grabbed her by the arm, thrown her in the saddle and ridden back to the keep. She couldn’t have resisted his strength - it would have been easy.

He might have even smuggled her back to her room without raising attention to her foolish attempt to escape. No good would come from that; Joffrey would be incensed and Sandor didn’t want to think about what wicked punishment he would conjure to the detriment of the girl.

But he didn’t do it.

Instead, Sandor let her go and only followed, hanging back in an attempt to be as inconspicuous as possible. He didn’t mount his horse but proceeded on foot in order to stand out less in the crowd, which was not an easy feat considering his looks and size, not to mention the shining Kingsguard armour he was wearing.

The girl walked fast, although stopping now and then to take her bearings. It didn’t surprise Sandor; when would she had had a chance to visit the less glamorous parts of the city? That she seemed to have _any_ idea where she was going, impressed Sandor enough.

It must have been because of her father. She had visited him only a few days before, and now he had escaped – and she was on her way to follow him. What else could it be?

Sandor had witnessed Joffrey’s rage after he had received the news of Ned Stark’s disappearance, as well as Varys’s utter bewilderment about how it had happened. Nevertheless, although Sandor enjoyed seeing usually so cunning Varys at a loss, he didn’t particularly care about Lord Stark’s disappearance one way or another.

What Cersei and Joffrey had done had been thoughtless and short-sighted. One didn’t simply imprison one of the great lords of the realm even if that lord happened to be as troublesome as Lord Stark was – especially when he was right and the king was wrong. Had they let him go but kept his daughters as assurances for his behaviour, the whole thing could have blown over soon enough. Sandor had seen how valuable those girls were for their parents: more than just pawns to be married off for gain. The Starks were a close-knit family in a way he had never witnessed with the Lannisters or the Baratheons.

Sandor had to duck into a narrow alley when the girl suddenly turned around and retraced her steps until taking a different turn. Doing so, she brushed past him so close Sandor could smell her; not a heavy and cloying perfume most ladies in the court used, but the freshness of scented herbs and things he couldn’t have named had he tried – and essence that was all her.

He had felt it first when he had threatened to dress her that day when everything had changed - when this whole mystery had first unfolded – and since then, many times when he had walked her to and from her rooms. And that night in the garden…

Sandor closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to catch the lingering traces of her. He had been drinking that evening – not as much as to have been able to forget a single detail of it, but enough to let go of his usual reservedness at the time. Gods, he had spilt out his story – again – to the girl that night! Hadn’t it been bad enough to do it once and know the burden of her knowledge always hanging above his head, to be gossiped about and sneered at? The Hound, one of the realm’s most formidable warriors, a weakling abused by his brother and then denied and shamed by his own father. How people would laugh.

Yet he couldn’t regret it.

 _“Friends?”_ she had said – asking if they were such.

 _“A friend is someone who tells you the truth and tries to help you if you are doing something wrong”_ , she had also said.

He had laughed at her at the time, but now…

Sandor swore and resolved to take her back and not to tell anyone about any of it. Nice and easy. He would tell her to keep her mouth shut and forget about trying it again. That she would only get hurt if she did.

That’s what being a friend was.

And yet he didn’t make a move to grasp her, only following her further.

* * *

The girl’s route took her close to the walls near the River Row, past Fishmongers Square to the Street of Steel. She stopped once to talk to a woman selling her wares, likely to ask directions, as after a brief conversation the woman pointed forward and waved her hand first to the left, then to the right.

They walked past a few groups of Gold Cloaks, first her, then Sandor. They paid no attention to her, but seeing Sandor and Stranger they straightened up and attempted to look busy. A Kingsguard knight alone on the streets was not a common sight, and Sandor knew he only needed to say a word and they would follow him. He considered it, but only fleetingly. He needed no enforcement, and that would take away all chances of keeping the whole affair under wraps.

Finally the girl stopped in front of the inn, gazing up at the worn wooden sign hanging above the door. _Golden Stag._ Sandor knew the place, had been drinking there more than once. Passable ale, decent food.

The girl stepped on the threshold, pushed the heavy door open and stepped in.

Sandor stopped too, not being sure what to do next.

She was going to meet her father, that much was obvious. And it meant that Sandor would have a chance to apprehend both of them at the same time.

Joffrey would be pleased and probably would throw him heavy purse as a reward. Cersei would take it as granted, as she did every service and favour done for her, but even she would make a pretence of praising him with a few chosen words and a smile that never reached her eyes. Varys would heave a sigh of relief and Littlefinger might offer him a free night in one of his brothels. Sandor had seen the way his eyes followed the Sark girl in the court, and having her back would undoubtedly please him.

He didn’t care about any of that, though. He would be just doing his duty. However, capturing Stark would draw attention to the girl’s escape too.

Sandor leaned against the wall of the inn, pondering his next move. He could hold them both, he didn’t doubt it. Maybe he should knock Stark unconscious and tie him up to wait until he would have secreted the little bird back to her cage, then come back for him? Maybe command Gold Cloaks to come with him on her way back?

He needed to make the girl swear to say nothing of it – surely she would see benefits of it for herself too?

Sandor kicked at the rock at his feet and saw it skidding on the hardened surface of the street. Having made up his mind, he then pulled away from the wall and walked past the inn, around the corner and turned into a narrow back alley. He tied Stranger into a pole and returned to his spot in front of the inn. He needed his hands free to apprehend his targets when they emerged, which he expected to happen soon enough. Lord Eddard might have been a fool in his dealings with Cersei, but surely not fool enough not to appreciate that they couldn’t linger in King’s Landing any more than necessary.

Yet they didn’t come. The door of the inn opened once, but only a single old man spilt out of it and went on his way. Sandor saw his face clearly and he most certainly was _not_ Ned Stark, Warden of the North.

A cold squeeze took hold of his innards then. What if he had been outwitted? Maybe the girl had gone out from the back and continued her journey, leaving him behind like some bloody fool? Maybe she had noticed him following her?

Sandor cursed and almost ran to the door, tearing it open and rushing in.

“The girl – did you see a girl coming in?” he shouted at the man behind the counter. His gaze swept the room but saw only a few huddled forms nursing their goblets and a woman, stopped at mid-sweep and staring at him her mouth agape, a broom frozen in her hand.

“A girl?”

“Yes, a tall one, head covered with a scarf. She came in but a moment ago. Where is she now?” Sandor looked towards the stairs as he talked, wondering whether he would find her upstairs. Maybe she had gone to meet her father in one of the guest rooms, maybe they were right now getting ready to leave…

“She went to the back. Asked after a guest who arrived yesterday, Master Underhill. He stank so bad that I gave him a room next to the stables –“

Sandor didn’t wait for the man to finish his sentence but strode to the door at the back in a few long strides and pushed it open, cursing silently in his mind. Maybe he should have caught the girl alone when he had a chance, then Lord Stark. If they were together, it would be messier. Doable, but messier.

But no, he had wanted to be sure.

No matter. He still had a chance.

As Sandor burst out to the backyard, he saw the girl already knocking on the door of the opposing building. Sandor took a few hasty steps towards her as she pushed the door open and stepped in, Sandor right at her heels.

He grabbed her by the waist, pinning her hands by her sides. She was thin as a wisp and despite tensing at his touch, offered no real resistance.

“So, what do we have here?” Sandor growled, bending his head down at her ear. He had her now, she wouldn’t be able to escape. At the same time, he glanced around the small room they had entered, seeing no signs of Stark.

_Good._

It meant he could secure the girl first. He didn’t like the idea of tying her down, but it couldn’t be helped, and it was for her own good anyway.

He only needed to push her further into the room, throw her down and reach for... maybe he could use her scarf to tie her hands, or his belt, and then he –

Sandor heard the warning sounds of steps on gravel but had no time to react when something blunt and heavy landed on his head and everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this answered some questions and comments from before about what was in Sandor’s mind when he followed Sansa! Complicated matters, clearly… 🤔🤔
> 
> I have marked this story as complete, 2/2 chapters, as I can’t promise when the next updates will be done and I don’t want this to hang on there as an unfinished fic… Also, by the nature of this collection, this is not a full story as such, but only snippets and scenes from the original, so should be OK I hope.
> 
> However, I _am_ writing more chapters, even this very moment, and hope to post them in the future, planning to include more POVs from those without one in the original fic. So if you want to stay alerted about them when posted, just subscribe to this fic! 
> 
> Any comments and observations are warmly welcomed, or you can also come and say hi to me at Tumblr, at [ladytp](https://ladytp.tumblr.com/)!


	3. Jaime - Decision Made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more we get into the head of one whose voice was largely missing in the main fic (well, as much a Jaime Lannister could ever be silenced! 😜)
> 
> This scene is set after [Chapter 64: “Gulltown”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13567893/chapters/50930452) and reveals the events from Jaime’s POV, the ones Brienne later recounts to Sansa in [Chapter 65: "Diva"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13567893/chapters/51514387).
> 
> Million thanks to Gefionne for betaing this chapter!

_**Jaime** _

Jaime studied the shapes in the ceiling above his bed; how the grains of old wood twirled and weaved, dark veins alternating with lighter ones. Twisting, winding, bending and looping – like his own life, for the whole last year.

He might have lived an eventful life already before, with battles and campaigns and tourneys - and in the middle of it, always Cersei: the lodestone towards which he had gravitated, returning to her time and time again. Yet nothing compared to the events and turmoil he had gone through since being captured by Robb Stark in the Whispering Woods.

Yes, he had lost the use of his legs in a horrible accident, but it hadn’t even been the biggest shock, as devastating it had been and still was. He had made great progress in his rehabilitation and had started to hope he might yet be able to return to his old form - but the strain and frustration of not being there still frequently overtook him.

No, what truly stunned Jaime to the core had been how his lodestone had gradually shifted from his twin, whom he had sworn would be his one and only love, towards the hulking warrior maid. The difference between the two women couldn’t have been bigger. There was no woman more unlikely to win Jaime’s affections after Cersei than the lady knight. Or so he had thought.

Jaime sighed and turned onto his side.

_Brienne._

How anyone could be so stubbornly obtuse and naïve, kind and honourable, hard and unyielding, sincere and trusting - and so damn good? And how could she understand him so well, when he himself didn’t fully know his own mind and heart?

Jaime had spent countless hours trying to dissect his feelings towards the Maid of Tarth, always coming up empty. Brienne had been kind to him, that was true, and she had pushed him when he had needed pushing. She was honourable and honest – which alone should have been enough to see Jaime running to the hills to escape such an overly righteous creature.

And yet there was something else that drew him towards her, something that surpassed all superficial concerns: the comfort and ease he felt in her company, a sensation that he could be himself and reveal his soul to her, his worst and best, and she wouldn’t judge him for it. It was a longing to see her reaction and hear her thoughts about any matter, and a craving to seek her advice, no matter whether he ended up following it in the end or not.

It was also physical, making it more than just a meaningful friendship and mutual respect gained through shared experiences. Jaime admired Brienne’s body for its strength and agility, but couldn’t deny the sharp stab of desire when he caught his gaze lingering at her small breasts, imagining how they might feel under his hands. Or the smell of her, primal and womanly, stirring his imagination and his cock when they lay together in the same bed or a bedroll. Jaime _wanted_ her – and his desire surprised him perhaps even more than his other emotions.

None of it made any sense, unlike his feelings towards Cersei had done. He and Cersei were twins; they were one and the same and they understood each other better than anyone else ever could, Jaime had believed. Then Brienne had entered his life and everything had changed. Slowly but surely, and as he suspected, irrevocably.

Jaime took a deep breath and forced his mind back to the real matter at hand.

_She is leaving tomorrow._

Brienne had sorted it all out; found a ship that would take her to White Harbour and secured passage on it for herself. Another ship, bound for King’s Landing, was leaving in a week, and Jaime had been booked to leave with it.

He had proposed to her – the _second_ time – in good faith, sure in his belief that she would say yes. Why wouldn’t she? Cersei would be out their way because Lord Tywin wouldn’t waste an opportunity for another important alliance through her, and as formidable as Cersei thought she was, even she couldn’t resist the will of the Lion of the Rock. Jaime would agree to be his father’s heir and no matter how disappointed Lord Tywin might be about his son’s choice of bride, he had no option but to accept if he wanted Jaime back.

Which Jaime was sure he did.

For a moment he entertained himself with images of himself and Brienne at Casterly Rock, married and settled, ruling it as its lord and lady. They would have children, many of them: tall boys and girls with sun-streaked hair and deep-blue eyes…

Then Jaime fell back to reality so hard it hurt. Brienne had said _no_. She had been sad about it, but she _had_ refused.

And tomorrow she would leave – and he might never see her again. He would go back to his family and take his rightful position by his father’s side.

Jaime knew he would never go back to Cersei - he simply couldn’t. They both had changed too much since they were children and life had been simpler. It was a fact Jaime had known for a while already, although he had refused to admit it. But now, after experiencing how it felt to be in love with a woman who was good and kind and _really_ knew him, Jaime couldn’t imagine settling for anything less.

Yet he couldn’t abandon his family and his legacy just as easily. He owed his duty to them, especially after Tyrion had changed sides. The lineage of the Lannisters was perhaps not as ancient as that of some other great houses in the Seven Kingdoms, but it was noble and proud, and Jaime couldn’t shake obligations ingrained in him for his whole life only because of his personal inclinations.

_Or could he?_

* * *

It had taken Jaime many hours to fall into a restless sleep, and when bright rays of sun danced on his eyelids, it took him a long while to wake from his slumber. When he did, his first waking thought rotated back to where his consciousness had left him.

_She is leaving today._

Jaime jerked up suddenly. The last traces of sleep scattered away and he was bright and alert and focussed. All the jumbled and incoherent thoughts of the night had shaped and focussed and in the light of the morning, were crystal clear. He knew what he had to do.

Jaime scrambled up and splashed some water on his face, thinking furiously about his next steps. He had already started to organise his belongings, as few of them there were, so it would be a quick job to pack them. A few bags, the same he had brought over from the Quiet Isle, his last cache of coins, safely secured in a purse he carried on his person at all times…

He gathered his things fast, not bothering to worry about breakfast or other such mundane matters. He had to be ready when she came, as he knew she would. Brienne of Tarth wouldn’t slip away without saying goodbye, no matter that they had already said their wordless goodbyes – the ones that mattered - already a few nights ago when he had sneaked into her bed and they had held each other that whole night.

Jaime had been tempted - oh, how much he had been tempted! – to touch her as he wanted, to kiss her, to have the last beautiful memory of their time together as fully as it was possible between a man and a woman. Yet he had known she wouldn’t have wanted it, not even if she had said yes, as it would have been in a moment of weakness. She held her values up high and unblemished and he couldn’t besmirch them or make her fail them. That’s not what love was.

_Love._

Had he ever said it out loud to her? That he loved her? Jaime couldn’t remember. He shook his head and grabbed a stack of tunics from the shelf and stuffed them into his bag.

* * *

A knock on the door. _Of course._ Brienne was always so polite, even after all they had been through together. Heaven’s sake, she had wiped his ass and seen him at his lowest – how could she care whether she caught him lying in his bed or up and clad only in his shirt?

Jaime hid his smile and called her to enter.

“Jaime, I’m about to –” Brienne took one step into the room and stopped, looking around. Her gaze registered the bags neatly organised on the bed, the empty shelves, Jaime dressed up in his travelling gear, his cloak already fastened on his shoulders.

“You are about to what?” Jaime enquired softly, enjoying observing the flood of expressions on her face. Surprise, confusion, suspicion – and was that perhaps hope? He was seated by the window, feeling relaxed and superbly confident. Any doubts he might have had in his mind about the correctness of his actions had evaporated and he was _sure_.

“Jaime, what is this?” Her beautiful blue eyes turned to him, imploring.

Jaime grinned. “If you think you can get rid of me so easily, you have another thing coming, wench. I’m coming with you!”

Brienne’s mouth fell open and if Jaime hadn’t been so thrilled about his newly-made decision, he might have made a jape about it, telling her that she looked like a fish out of water, gulping air. Things being as they were, he only continued grinning, probably looking very stupid but not caring a whit.

“With me? Why?”

“Because I don’t want to live without you, and as you so clearly told me that you are not going to come with me, it leaves me exactly one choice: to follow you. Whether you want it or not.”

“But… what about your father? And Casterly Rock? And –” Brienne swallowed her next words but Jaime guessed what they would have been about.

“My father can rule Casterly Rock on his own, as he has done so far, and the Seven Kingdoms, and his family. He can stick all that up his arse for all I care.”

“Jaime!” Brienne was shocked. Family was sacred to her and part of her code of duty and honour, and to hear Jaime talking about his in such a manner was sure to distress her. Jaime felt almost sorry for her.

“As for Cersei – it is over. It has been over for a long time. You remember what I told you on the Quiet Isle?” Jaime rose to his feet and took a few shuffling steps towards Brienne. She didn’t move but stayed at the door, her hand still on the latch. “That I felt nothing when she didn’t even wish me a speedy recovery. That I didn’t care.”

He reached for Brienne and touched her chin, turning her head so he could look directly into her eyes.

“My house and family can sink to the bottom of the seventh hell if they stand in the way of me being with you. And since there might have been one small omission I have made in my attempts to woo you and propose to you, I had better mend that straight away.”

Brienne said nothing, but she didn’t resist, looking at him with those big blue eyes, and Jaime felt he was drowning, drowning, drowning deep into them.

“I love you, Brienne of Tarth. I love your righteousness, I love your stubbornness, I love your kindness, I love your long legs and muscles and freckles on your face and your perfectly shaped nose.” He leaned closer and pressed a soft kiss on the tip of her nose.

Brienne didn’t resist, only closed her eyes and heaved a deep sigh.

“I know where my place is, and that is not playing in the game of thrones nor being a pawn in my father’s political machinations. If they stand between me and the woman I love, I will simply step aside and take a new course.” Jaime kissed Brienne’s cheeks and then her eyelids. “A course that takes me to you.”

Brienne raised her hand to his face and pulled away, not far, just enough that she could focus her gaze at him.

“Are you sure, Jaime?” She was serious and some part of Jaime wondered how she could even ask such a question – but another part of him understood.

“Yes, I am sure.” He leaned into Brienne’s hand and turned his head to kiss her palm. Then he stepped away. This was not a time to expect reciprocation for his declaration. Jaime was reasonably sure Brienne felt the same way as he did, but he also knew her and that she needed time.

“Now, if you’d be so kind to an old cripple and help me to carry some of these bags downstairs. I believe we have a ship to catch?”

* * *

Everything went smoothly and they soon found themselves on board the Merman’s Pride, their belongings stashed into a small cabinet Jaime had paid good money for. The captain had been surprised seeing him escorting Brienne to the ship – or maybe it had been the other way around - but Jaime’s purse had soothed captain’s concerns about an extra passenger.

The cabin was small, with only one cot, which Jaime regarded as a good sign. They had to stay down when the ship pulled away from the harbour, but once they were on their way, the few passengers the ship carried were allowed to go on deck.

Jamie and Brienne stood side by side against the rail, witnessing the change of scenery as the harbour with its warehouses and loading docks slipped out of view, being replaced by bushes and a few fields visible through the craggy vegetation of the coastline. Jaime stood slightly in front of Brienne, but he could feel her presence there, her solid form and the side of her arm pressing against his.

They hadn’t discussed what Jaime’s decision meant or what they would do next. Jaime suspected Brienne was afraid to ask, thinking he was going to try to persuade her to leave her liege lady and the vows she had made. Brienne knew that Jaime didn’t view the Starks as his foes as much as he had done before, but there was still a big difference between simply leaving one’s family and actively joining its enemies.

In truth, if it had been up to Jaime, he _would_ have wanted Brienne to leave the Starks. They were not even her liege lords—surely she could ask Lady Catelyn to release her from her service? Besides, Brienne had slipped to Jaime what Sansa had told her that night of their escape from the Quiet Isle: how she could take her time and consider what she wanted to do next. A perfect opportunity to do just that - and then they could go wherever they wanted. If not the Westerlands, then maybe across the Narrow Sea, to Braavos or Pentos. Or Tarth – Jaime would be happy to go to Tarth with her. Her father may not approve of him, especially if they were not married, but Jaime was willing to take that risk.

Jaime knew he couldn’t propose to her again, after promising he wouldn’t. At least not so soon. If it meant that he would have to wait for some time to pass to do it again, then apologise her profusely for breaking his promise –

“Jaime?” Brienne said, her voice almost drowned out by the wind whistling in their ears. They had picked up a favourable wind and the ship glided atop of waves fast and gracefully.

Jaime turned to her. “Yes? Do you want to go down already? Are you cold?”

Brienne threw an exasperated look at him, conveying quite effectively that she was a grown woman and could take care of herself and didn’t need a man to make sure she stayed warm. Jaime smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He actually enjoyed showing Brienne those little courtesies; signs that he cared and wanted her comfort above all things, as little as she cared about it.

“What then? Do you want to discuss our plans for when we arrive in White Harbour? I suggest we move on as soon as possible; someone might recognise me there and that would cause only unnecessary troubles and delays. If we buy two horses from the harbour and – “

“Will you marry me?”

Jaime wasn’t sure he heard her right or if the wind in his ears had twisted and warped her words. He leaned closer, his ear next to Brienne’s mouth.

“What did you say?”

Brienne shuffled her feet. It had been a while since Jaime had seen her so uncomfortable and gangly, not since their first week together as prisoners in Robb Stark’s camp. If he wouldn’t have been so focussed on what he _thought_ she had said, he would have enjoyed the situation.

Brienne took a deep breath, huffed, then said it again.

“Will you marry me?”

Jaime _had_ heard it right the first time. His mouth curved into a slow smile: a genuine smile made of pure joy, without mock or malice.

_I don’t have to wait after all._

Many quips, amusing and witty, crossed his mind, but he said none of them. Instead, he pulled away just enough to face her squarely. Brienne’s eyes were narrowed and there was wariness in her face – as if she had presented him with a challenge to a duel rather than a proposal for marriage. Or maybe in their case, it was the same.

Jaime smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Brienne’s cheeks flushed pink and Jaime laughed out loud, an unbearable lightness filling his whole body.

He had made the right decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaime certainly did the right decision, I think we all agree on that… Or do we? Please do share your thoughts and comments and views!


End file.
